


Held

by Decepticonsensual



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alt-Mode Sexual Interfacing, Bondage, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:13:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24011869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decepticonsensual/pseuds/Decepticonsensual
Summary: Fulcrum learns that Misfire has a unique way of letting off steam.  Fulcrum is not sure how he feels about this.Misfire is VERY sure how he feels about the prospect of Fulcrum joining in.
Relationships: Fulcrum/Misfire/Krok/Spinister/Crankcase, Fulcrum/The Scavengers (Transformers), Misfire/The Scavengers
Comments: 15
Kudos: 79
Collections: Kinks in the Wires (A free 18+ Transformers weird kinks fanzine)





	Held

**Author's Note:**

> My piece for the Kinks in the Wires zine! You can find the whole zine, with almost 30 amazing pieces of fic and art, here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23966062
> 
> Content warning for bondage, alt-mode sex (kiiiiind of), wireplay/tactile

Something’s off about Misfire.

At first, Fulcrum ignores it, on the grounds that – well, not to be a gearstick about it, but something’s _always_ off about Misfire. The jet seems to exist at a slightly askew angle to the rest of the world. But it’s a kind of off that Fulcrum has grown used to, and, Primus help him, even finds himself charmed by. And when Misfire’s a bit off from his normal off – say, the rate of his chatter has increased until it’s more of a high engine whine than speech, or he’s transformed and gone haring off with barely a word to his companions – it rarely lasts long, and there’s usually a cause, whether it’s Necrobot-related or something particularly potent in the fuel he’s just siphoned.

But right now, Misfire’s been behaving oddly for days, with no signs of letting up. Granted, it’s more subtle than a half-cocked eldritch entity chase or a bad trip. Misfire is – jittery, beyond his normal animation. He can’t seem to sit still for two seconds without his leg bouncing, and that’s when he can be persuaded to sit down at all, instead of pacing the bridge as if he’s on patrol. It’s a strange, fretful motion; he won’t settle to anything, waving away invitations to play Shoot Shoot Bang Bang with the excuse that he’s too tired, but refusing to rest.

Even that isn’t especially weird, compared to the number of times per day Misfire is transforming. It’s a little disconcerting, walking onto the bridge only to find a jet in full-on plane mode leaning over the instruments. Worst, though, are the days when Misfire is just in constant flux, cycling between alt and root modes so fast he’s an anxious blur.

Fulcrum eventually corners Krok about it.

“He gets that way,” Krok replies, without looking up from his charts. “Every once in a while. Nothing to worry about.”

That makes Fulcrum narrow his optics, because it’s not like Krok to brush off concerns about his crew. “You sure? Because it looks to me like he’s about to shake apart.”

“I’m sure. Misfire just needs a little R&R.”

“We all do,” Fulcrum says flatly. He pinches the bridge of his nose, not sure how he can convince his captain that this _isn’t_ normal cabin fever, and it’s not likely to be solved by a pub crawl on Troia Major.

But strangely enough, it’s his last statement that does finally get Krok’s attention. Two sharp red optics are boring into Fulcrum’s, and he takes a half-step back without meaning to.

“Yes,” Krok says slowly. “I suppose you do, too.”

Then he turns back to the nav console as if he’d never spoken.

***

Fulcrum can’t seem to put the situation out of his mind, but he can’t make heads or tails of it either. His one attempt to ask Misfire directly ends with the jet blushing purple, before haring out of the room like the DJD are after him. Since when does Misfire, the Decepticon who once nudged the Galactic Council trooper arresting them in the side and asked if she wanted a hit from his circuit booster stash, ever feel _embarrassed_ about things?

Right now, they’re docked in orbit around some two-bit market world on the Galactic Rim. They’re fuelled up, fully stocked, and as safe as the W.A.P. tends to get, and Fulcrum’s finally had enough.

Krok opens the door to his quarters in response to the determined buzzer and says, before Fulcrum can even get a word of his rehearsed speech out: “Ah. I was just coming to get you.”  
  


Fulcrum blinks. “You… were?” This response isn’t anything he prepared for. He’s aware that he’s floundering, and the slight smile-creases at the corners of Krok’s optics tell Fulcrum that Krok knows it, too.

“Now that we have a little downtime, I’ve arranged that R&R for Misfire that I mentioned.” Fulcrum’s silence only makes Krok’s optics glow brighter. “Didn’t think I’d forgotten, did you?”

“What kind of...” Fulcrum swallows. Visions of them all free-jumping from orbit, or sticking a corpse under a box that’s propped up with a stick, attached to a piece of string, in order to make a Necrobot-trap, all dance behind his optics. “What kind of R&R are we talking about?”

Krok’s gaze dims slightly. “Well. You know how Misfire tends to have a lot of energy to burn off.”

“Sure.”

“And you know he’s normally very… tactile.”

“Yeeeesssss...” A faint alarm starts to ring in the back of Fulcrum’s mind.

“And… companionship… isn’t always easy to find when we’re on the move.”

The alarm is turning into a blaring siren. “Are you saying that you -” Fulcrum’s voice drops to a hiss. “Are you saying that you and Misfire _frag_ to calm him down?”

“Oh, no.” Krok regards Fulcrum steadily. “I’m saying the whole crew frags him to calm him down.”

Fulcrum is going to have to scoop his admittedly very impressive chin off the floor, he just knows it. But even that revelation pales in comparison to Krok’s next words.

“And he’d _really_ enjoy it if you joined us.”

A sound emerges from deep in Fulcrum’s throat. It’s a low whine, and much as he wants it to express the confusion he’s feeling, it comes out sounding almost… pleading.

Krok’s optics narrow in a smirk. “Up to you, of course, but I think you’d enjoy it, too.”

“I -” Fulcrum’s voice cracks. This is, hands down, the weirdest thing that’s happened during his time on the W.A.P., and he’s very much counting the time they all fell under that rhyming curse. And yet – he can hardly deny that he’s intrigued, not when it seems like his own frame is on the verge of betraying him. And he thinks of Misfire, infectious, pretty, incongruously kind Misfire, eager for _Fulcrum_ of all people to touch him – “Wait. Is this why Misfire’s been acting so weird around me? Never thought he’d be the type to be bashful. I mean, when we met he asked if he could keep my fuel pump.”

“Ah. Misfire’s tastes are a bit… unusual. He’s not always sure how people will react.” Krok begins walking down the hall, leaving Fulcrum scrambling to catch up.

“What do you mean, _unusual_?”

“I could explain, but it might be easier to show you.” For the first time, the flicker of Krok’s optics over his shoulder seems uncertain. “Would that be all right? No one’s going to think worse of you if you decide you don’t want to play.”

Trusting Krok is starting to feel almost instinctive. “All right.”

***

“Loser!”

Fulcrum can’t help but smile at the delight in Misfire’s voice.

Even if he’s feeling a little nervous otherwise – Krok has taken them, to Fulcrum’s surprise, past Misfire’s room and down to the shuttle bay instead. The usual crates and piles of salvage have been cleared away, leaving a wide empty space in the middle, and a curious array of what look like straps hanging from the ceiling. Crankcase and Spinister are already there, clustered near Misfire; the former snatches his hands away from where they’d been wrapped around Misfire’s waist when Fulcrum walks in. The latter, barely registering the new arrivals, continues to trail one finger over Misfire’s wing in a delicate, surgically precise pattern. Fulcrum feels a flare of jealousy – and then, sharp on its heels, the realisation that he doesn’t _need_ to be jealous. That Misfire wants him here. That he could, if he wanted to, stroll right over to them and…

He flushes and ducks his head.

Misfire beams, then cocks his head to the side a little shyly. “Wasn’t sure you’d want to come along.”

“I went along with Shoot Shoot Bang Bang, didn’t I?” Fulcrum grins. “And ended up liking it, once you’d convinced me.”

“Yeah, but this is more like Shoot Shoot Gang Bang.”

“I can still leave, you know.”

“Don’t worry,” Krok cuts in. “The puns tend to slow down once we get going.” He walks up to Misfire, and murmurs, “I figured we’d get started and let Fulcrum join in if he likes what he sees.” With that, he runs a finger lightly over Misfire’s cheek; Misfire, who was opening his mouth to speak, breaks off with a little gasp and leans into the touch. Fulcrum gapes. He’s never seen anything _shut Misfire up_ before.

Naturally, it doesn’t last, as Krok asks, “Ready?”

“No, I love taking scenic walks down to the shuttle bay for no reason at all. Of _course_ I’m ready, what kind of a bloody question is that?” Some of Misfire’s bravado seems to seep back in as he turns and winks at Fulcrum. “Hey, loser. Make sure you’ve got a front-row seat for this.”

Krok reaches up and tugs at the straps hanging from the ceiling. On closer inspection, Fulcrum can see that it’s actually some kind of… harness, but he’s damned if he can tell how Misfire’s going to get his limbs in it. It’s all the wrong height, the wrong angle, and –

And then Krok says, “Now,” and Misfire transforms –

Or rather, he starts to. His head bows, limbs folding, but it’s as if it’s in slow motion. Armour begins to gape, preparing to re-fold over reconfigured struts. Misfire bends forward, legs still partly visible under the sweep of his wings, halfway between root mode and jet.

And holds. And holds.

Misfire is clearly trembling; Fulcrum can see it from here. Beyond that, though he never really realised how beautiful the intermediate phase of transformation can be. Misfire’s back is held in a tense, graceful curve, suspended a moment away from the point where it would normally release into the sleek spine of his jet form. Sections of the rest of his armour are straight-up peeled away from his body. It’s a strangely vulnerable moment, one no one is really meant to see close up like this.

Fulcrum’s ventilations stutter as he watches as Krok’s long, sure fingers loop the straps around the jet’s wings, then fasten them around his middle. Finally, he tests the give in the harness and then steps back, surveying the half-transformed jet in front of him. Fulcrum had expected Misfire’s shaking to subside once the straps were taking most of his weight, but if anything, the jet seems to be trembling even harder.

“Good boy.” Fulcrum has never heard Krok’s soft, dry voice sounding like _this_ before. That note of command makes something in him want to roll onto his back and beg. “That’s it. You’re doing so well, Misfire.” He strokes the flat of his palm over Misfire’s wing. Instantly, Misfire’s trembling quiets. A moment longer, and it’s as if something deep inside Misfire unknots; he sags in his bindings, a sigh escaping him, armour loosening and flaring in all directions.

With all his transformation seams gaping wide, Misfire is a riot of jumbled plating, scraps that are neither limbs nor landing gear – not yet. In this moment, it’s as if he could become anything.

Now that the jet is no longer shaking, Fulcrum can really see the gaps in Misfire’s armour: naked silver, putting his inner workings wantonly on display. Intricate circuitry peeks out, and it almost seems possible to hear the hum of electricity along it. Here and there, biolights twinkle in the depths of Misfire’s circuits.

Krok leans in and blows a gust of air from his vents inches from the captive jet, and Misfire’s splayed-open plating ripples, causing the biolights to wink invitingly. Fulcrum’s engine revs.

“Please, Krok.” Misfire’s voice is muffled, his vocaliser echoing against his armour. “Please please please please –”

Their captain chuckles, optics narrowing fondly. “Well, since you asked so prettily.”

Fulcrum’s whole body has tensed, arcing forward almost like a mirror to Misfire’s. Time seems to slow as Krok reaches _into_ Misfire’s plating. He pinches one wispy filament carefully between thumb and forefinger, and then glides his hand along the wire, deeper and deeper into Misfire’s body –

A blue spark of electricity bursts between Krok’s fingertips, and Misfire _shrieks_. He’s begun shaking again, babbling, “Yes yes oh _frag_ yes where are the rest of you dipsticks I need it –”

Crankcase is beside him in an instant, his lips softened into the closest he can safely come to a smile. Fulcrum is seeing their pilot’s ease with circuitry in a new light, as Crankcase dives wrist-deep into Misfire’s internals with breathtaking confidence. As Krok continues to tease, one delicate wire at a time, Crankcase palms an entire circuitboard with one hand, while the other pushes at a transformation seam, coaxing it wider. Misfire squirms, but keeps himself suspended at that halfway point of transformation even as electricity crackles over his plating.

Spinister takes his time wandering over, and even longer studying Misfire’s disassembled frame. Just as Fulcrum is starting to wonder if the copter has forgotten what they’re doing there, though, Spinister abruptly drops to his knees and pushes a finger into a seam half-hidden by the shadow of Misfire’s wing. It spasms around his hand, and Misfire lets out a moan that practically shakes the floor.

Fulcrum has all but made up his mind that he’s going to sit this session out. He can’t deny that it’s having an effect on him, that his mouth is dry and his EM field feels like it’s swollen to encompass the whole ship; it’s enticing, but it’s all so new, and so strange. He’s going to just watch – and, well, _appreciate –_ and then decide if he wants to take a more active role next time (Primus please let there be a next time).

He’s not quite sure why his feet are moving. Misfire’s low, desperate whines are magnetic. Fulcrum doesn’t even remember to feel embarrassed until he’s halfway across the floor, and even then, it’s almost swamped by the need to touch, to feel Misfire’s circuitry under his own fingers.

It’s only as he arrives at Misfire’s side that Fulcrum hesitates. He doesn’t know where to start; all those wires look so beautiful and fragile. What if he hurts Misfire by accident?

He’s startled by a touch on his wrist. Spinister’s big, skilful hand closes over his, and pulls Fulcrum forward, guiding his fingers beneath a curve of plating and planting them firmly against Misfire’s circuits.

Spinister has done all this without even glancing up from where his own fingers are making Misfire shiver, but Krok meets Fulcrum’s optics over Misfire’s wing and gives him a wink. Fulcrum grins, breathless.

The filaments are warm under his fingers. They pulse against his touch, living currents arcing from Misfire’s body to Fulcrum’s and back. Fulcrum curls his fingers, and the circuitry flutters around him. He can hear Misfire’s voice, strained with pleasure, gasping, “ _Fulcrum..._ ”

That’s all it takes to drive away the last of Fulcrum’s hesitation. He rakes his fingers greedily over the ridges of Misfire’s hidden circuits. These secret spots are so much more responsive than armour, twitching and moving under his touch as Misfire’s engine roars in his audials. Emboldened, Fulcrum ducks his head and licks at a particular sensitive cluster of wires, savouring the taste of Misfire’s arousal, all oil and ozone.

The suddenness of Misfire’s overload rips through all of them, sending a surge through Fulcrum’s tongue and down the length of his body. Misfire keens, all his transformation seams gaping open, beautiful.

The other Scavengers stagger back from the jolt. Krok shakes out his hand, wincing a little, and calls, “All right, Misfire?”

The voice from the jumble of armour that is Misfire sounds groggy. “Muh – more.” Minute shivers are still running over his frame, but he rallies. “I can take some more, come on!”

“Can you _take_ it, or do you actually want it?” Crankcase’s tone is grumpy, but there’s a genuine thread of concern there.

“I want it, I want it! Don’t make me beg, you afts.”

Spinister’s engine rumbles. “But I like it,” he murmurs. “When you beg. You should do that some more.”

Misfire switches gears in an instant. “Please, please keep going, please keep touching me, if you keep going I can overload again, _please –”_

“What do you think, Fulcrum?” Krok’s optics gleam. “Think he sounds like he really wants it?”

“Frag you, _frag me_!”

Fulcrum laughs, and four sets of hands dive back in.

They manage to coax another two overloads out of Misfire, though more subdued than the first. By the time Misfire comes the third time, he’s exhausted. He mutters, “Thundersaur,” which means nothing to Fulcrum but seems to be some kind of signal, because Krok quickly moves to release the straps. Misfire tumbles forward, plating seamlessly rearranging as he goes, until he’s resting on his landing gear in jet mode. Then, after a long moment, he shudders and transforms, sinking completely strutless into Spinister’s arms.

The copter doesn’t seem to mind. He settles on the floor of the shuttle bay, propping Misfire up against his chest, as the others drop down on either side of them. Fulcrum sits close to Misfire, and is rewarded when the drowsy jet wraps his arms around his neck and gives him a warm peck on the lips.

“Well?” Krok cocks a brow ridge at Fulcrum. “Seems like you did like what you saw.”

“I did. And -” Fulcrum clears his throat. “And I wouldn’t mind giving it a try.”

“Seems like you tried pretty well to me, loser,” Misfire murmurs in his arms.

“I mean… from the other side.”

The room goes unnaturally still. They’re all staring at him, even Misfire, his sleepy optics suddenly open wide.

“From Misfire’s side,” Fulcrum clarifies unnecessarily.

If anything, the staring intensifies.

“Look, forget it, it was a bad –”

“It was a great idea, let’s do it.” Krok gets to his feet, dusting himself off.

“What? You mean – now?”

“Up to you, but can you think of a better time?” Fulcrum’s spark whirs faster as Krok steps close. “You look like you’re still pretty worked up from watching Misfire. What do you say we do something about that?”

Fulcrum wants to. He _really_ wants to. But – “Are you sure? I mean, you do realise what my alt mode is.” A jet in mid-transformation provides a gorgeous visual. A half-disassembled bomb, on the other hand, is an ugly, utilitarian thing – and that’s even without the self-preservation instinct that should probably send any half-sensible Decepticon running at the sight.

Krok straight-up beams, and Fulcrum is reminded once again, gratefully, that he is not among sensible Decepticons.

He stands up. “How do I…?”

The others look at Misfire, who blinks – still a bit dazed – and shrugs. “Just start transforming. Real slow.”

“And then what?”

“Keep going until you want to stop, I guess.”

“Thanks, Misfire. Invaluable as always.”

“Look, it’ll feel right when you find it. Sort of – stretched, like the kinks in your wires are starting to give. It should feel like you’re almost at that limit, where a transformation breaks. You know? When you tumble from one form into the other.”

“What if I go past that point without realising?”

“Then change back and try and find it in the other direction, it’s not like we’re in a rush.”

In the end, it takes Fulcrum fewer tries than he feared. The first transformation is too fast, and he’s a bomb before he realises what’s happening; he changes back out of reflex. The next time, though, he pays closer attention than he ever has in his life as his frame inches through each unfolding. It’s when he’s almost completely fragmented, splayed open, that he stops, testing to see whether he can hold here.

He can. His plating rattles with the effort, but he can hold. It’s a little terrifying, being simultaneously trapped (even if it’s only by his own willpower) and exposed like this; he can’t quite shake the thought of all those optics staring into him, peering into the darkness beneath his seams.

But at the same time, the thought makes him ache in the best way.

He hears Krok ask a question, his patient tone suggesting this isn’t the first time he’s repeated it while Fulcrum was distracted. Fulcrum answers, “Ready.”

The first touch on his pent-up circuits is so good that Fulcrum lets out a sob, and the hand pulls back quickly; he begs, shameless in the face of this intense need, and purrs his engine when those talented fingers return. Another, larger set joins them. Then a third. The gentle trail of fingertips over his filaments turns into firmer, lingering presses as Fulcrum quakes, trying to push his circuits closer to every touch simultaneously. One hand plucks his wires like a guitar string, and he cries out. Again, the hand snatched back; the crackle of guilt through an EM field.

“No, no, do it again,” Fulcrum whimpers, “please, do – do that harder.”

He moans in bright pain and relief when the touch repeats. Fingers are growing bolder now, shoving into seams, spinning gears, wrenching him further open. He moans. There’s a light slap against an armoured panel that’s swinging free above his exposed circuitry, and Fulcrum yelps, the crackle of his building overload beginning to race across his synapses.

It’s the addition of a fourth pair of hands – Misfire’s clearly woken up enough to want to join in – that sends Fulcrum over the edge. He overloads for them, and trembles like he just might shake apart.

It’s long moments later that Fulcrum is able to pull himself back together – metaphorically and physically, tucking his still-tingling circuits away as he shifts back to root mode.

His ventilations are ragged. He’s kneeling on the cold hangar bay floor, and for a moment, the keen loss of those touches makes him want to curl up and cry. Then the impulse fades as he feels that he’s not really alone. He can sense his crewmates’ EM fields, and then the warmth of their plating, encircling him only inches away.

Fulcrum gradually onlines his optics. He cringes a little at the thought of meeting the others’ stares… but when he looks up, they’re sprawled comfortably around him, looking more like they’ve all just finished a movie night together than like they’ve just given him the best frag of his life. Krok shoots him a glance, his optics crinkling at the corners, and then reaches out to tug Fulcrum against his side as he turns to talk to Spinister. It’s some nonsense about the spanners in the last pile of scrap they lifted. Crankcase joins in animatedly, but as he does, he also shifts so that his legs are out in front of him, ankles hooked casually over Fulcrum’s. Fulcrum tunes out the words, just letting the sound of it soothe him. It doesn’t matter; he knows they’re giving him space to start to feel normal again.

Misfire, being Misfire, just flops backwards into Fulcrum’s lap. “Told you you’d want a front-row seat. Enjoy yourself?”

Fulcrum hums his agreement, and reaches down to stroke one of Misfire’s ear finials. Misfire’s optics slit in pleasure.

“So,” Fulcrum says after a little while, once he’s regained the use of his words, “that’s really what you all do every time you start to feel cooped up?”

“Works like a charm.”

“Do you… feel cooped up a lot?”

Misfire’s optics are now fully closed, and he’s smiling. “You know what, loser? I get the feeling I’m going to need a lot more R&R from now on.”

Fulcrum knows he’s grinning like an idiot, but here, surrounded by this strange little family of his, he can’t bring himself to care.


End file.
